


Relaxed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 5980 - Freeform, Day 7 - Coming Home, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yamamoto is so set in his expectations and so sleepy from hours of travel that he’s fully inside the house and has his shoes off before he realizes there’s a light on in the living room." Yamamoto comes home late and Gokudera is waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relaxed

By the time Yamamoto makes it home, he’s all but asleep on his feet. Midnight came and went long enough ago that he’s no longer paying attention to the time, the passing hours taking his alertness with them, until by the time he’s unlocking the front door he barely has any focus left to spare for moving quietly. It’s habit more than anything else that draws his motions slow and careful as he turns the key in the lock and eases the door open, the utter silence of the night around him a reminder for the sleeping quiet he expects from the inside of the apartment. He’s so set in his expectations and so sleepy from hours of travel that he’s fully inside the house and has his shoes off before he realizes there’s a light on in the living room, proof of the insomnia a more alert Yamamoto might have guessed at.

It’s a pleasant surprise. Yamamoto is smiling as he shrugs his jacket off to hang by the door, leaves his keys in the pocket as he pads down the hallway towards the light. Even with the late hour the gold glow is a comfort, beckoning him in closer as effectively as a voice, and when he rounds the corner Gokudera is looking at him with a book open on his lap.

Yamamoto can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, pure joy suffusing his tired body until he forgets how heavy his limbs feel in the first surge of delight. “Hi,” he says, moving towards the couch while Gokudera reaches for a bookmark to hold his place. “You’re awake.”

“Glad you haven’t gone blind while you were away,” Gokudera says without looking up from where he’s setting his book aside on the floor. “You’d be even less useful than you already are without basic observational skills.”

“I missed you,” Yamamoto says instead of responding, moving in to drop a knee against the edge of the couch so he can lean in over Gokudera. Gokudera’s frowning, barely looking up to meet Yamamoto’s gaze, but he’s reaching out for Yamamoto’s waist, drawing the other down against him faster than Yamamoto had intended to go. Yamamoto has to throw a hand out to keep from falling, his fingers catching against the hem of Gokudera’s shirt and pushing it up off his hip in the first movement.

“I missed you,” he says again, into Gokudera’s shoulder this time, where his head had ended up. When he breathes in he feels like he’s filling his lungs with comfort, all the sharp edges that make up the other man pressed in against his chest and legs and hands. He can’t stop smiling, can’t pull himself away; he can barely think but to shift his weight to get closer, to fit his knee between Gokudera’s or turn his head to inhale the spicy-sweet of his hair.

“You said that already,” Gokudera says, his arms fitting in around Yamamoto’s waist while Yamamoto gets a hand up to slide fingers through his hair. “You had better not pass out on top of me.”

“I love you,” Yamamoto says into Gokudera’s neck. “I love you so much, Hayato, I thought about you every day I was gone.”

“You  _called_  me every day you were gone,” Gokudera growls. “Multiple times. Did you get anything at all done other than driving me insane?”

“Yeah.” Yamamoto shifts his arm up, fits his elbow in over Gokudera’s shoulder. His other hand is pinned underneath him, his fingertips caught at the warmth of the other’s hip, and even the prickling of his arm going numb is ineffective persuasion for movement. “I have a whole bunch of notes and everything.”

“Fine.” Gokudera moves, turns himself sideways so Yamamoto tips off him and lands on the couch. Yamamoto’s hold isn’t steady enough to keep Gokudera in place; his hands slide free as Gokudera twists off the couch to kneel alongside it instead of lying next to the other. “You can tell me in the morning, then.”

“Hayato,” Yamamoto says, the first note of protest catching in the back of his throat. Gokudera does look at him at that, the green of his eyes shadow-marked with traces of insomnia. He’s frowning, still, his mouth curved down like he’s more irritated than pleased to see Yamamoto, wearing a t-shirt so old it’s fraying at the seams of the shoulders and the logo is faded well out of intelligibility, and he’s the most beautiful thing Yamamoto has ever seen.

Gokudera doesn’t move away when Yamamoto reaches up for him again; there’s a flutter of his eyelashes as the other’s hand touches his jaw, a softening at his mouth as Yamamoto’s fingers settle back into his hair, and by the time Yamamoto is sitting up to lean in closer the tension in his expression is falling slack. Yamamoto shuts his eyes just as Gokudera’s hand curls around his hip, sighs in expectation a moment before contact, and by the time their lips come together there’s no trace of anything but gentle welcome at Gokudera’s mouth.

Yamamoto doesn’t know how long they stay there. It’s slow, easy and unhurried like they’re both more interested in savoring the rediscovery of the other than in making up for the lost time, or maybe it’s just the late hour that is making Gokudera’s touch at Yamamoto’s hip gentle and warm and pushing Yamamoto forward to lean against Gokudera like he’s melting. Gokudera is licking against his mouth, a hand bracing against the back of his neck to hold him still, and Yamamoto would be willing to never move from this spot again, to have Gokudera’s hair under his fingers and Gokudera’s breathing against his skin and the slow heat of Gokudera’s mouth at his. He doesn’t move, either, stays right where he is as the unavoidable stress of travelling bleeds out of him, until by the time Gokudera draws back to blink slow and heavy at him Yamamoto feels more like himself than he has in days. He manages to pull himself into focus, enough to see the way Gokudera’s gaze slips across his features as if he’s memorizing them, and then the hand at his neck is moving to his shoulder, Gokudera pushing off him as he gets to his feet.

“I’m going to bed,” Gokudera announces, his fingers lingering at Yamamoto’s shoulder even once he’s on his feet. Yamamoto’s hands have slid to his hips of their own accord, fitting in against the other so he can maintain the contact he’s been too long without. “You planning to stay up all night, or are you coming with me?”

Yamamoto shakes his head, easy negation of the possibility of leaving. “With you,” he says, and Gokudera is offering him a hand to pull him to his feet before he’s even heard the answer. Yamamoto closes his fingers around the other’s wrist and there’s a tug, sharp and hard enough that he’s dragged to his feet before he has time to think. Then he’s upright, close enough for another kiss, except that Gokudera is turning away, stepping free of Yamamoto’s lingering touch at his hip but maintaining the tangle of their fingers as he goes.

“Come on, then,” he says over his shoulder, but Yamamoto is already there, trailing right at Gokudera’s heels so he can stay as close as he can to the other man. He can feel exhaustion winding all through his blood, his body encouraging the idea of rest now that it’s been mentioned, all of him purring in anticipation of having the warm of Gokudera pressed up against him as he slips into unconsciousness.

Gokudera pulls his hand free as soon as they’re in the bedroom, moving around the edge of the bed without looking back at Yamamoto left standing by the doorway. He doesn’t even turn around when he says, “Take your clothes off,” with far less smoulder in the words than they might usually have. Yamamoto’s forehead creases in a flicker of confusion at this disconnect, but he obeys anyway, tugs his tie loose and tosses it over the foot of the bed before shedding his shirt and slacks too. He takes the time to hang the pants back up, along with the tie -- Gokudera gets irate when he doesn’t take care of his clothes -- and by the time he turns back around Gokudera’s sitting at the edge of the bed with a bottle of oil in his hand watching him.

Yamamoto smiles, starts to move back in, but Gokudera waves him back, his mouth tightening into a frown as he insists “ _Everything_ , Takeshi,” and Yamamoto is willing enough to comply. He tugs off his socks, pushes his boxers off his hips and kicks them towards the corner, and this time when he moves in towards the bed Gokudera lets him come in close. Gokudera is still fully dressed, or as dressed as he was when Yamamoto came in, the hem of his shirt catching at the waistband of pajama pants, but he looks warm and soft and sweet, Yamamoto can see him start to smile at the touch of Yamamoto’s hand at his waist before he ducks his head to hide behind his hair.

“Lie on your stomach,” he says before Yamamoto has decided whether he’s more interested in sleep or sex, while he’s still stalled out breathing in lungfuls of air against Gokudera’s shining hair. Yamamoto doesn’t want to let him go but he obeys anyway, sliding away to collapse face-down across the bed with one arm up to pillow under his head. The mattress feels impossibly soft, offering the seduction of sleep exactly as he is, without even bothering to climb under the sheets, and then there’s movements and a weight settling in over his hips, and Yamamoto can’t help the whimper of pure physical satisfaction that pulls in his throat.

“I swear to god, Takeshi, I can  _see_  the knots in your back,” Gokudera grumbles over him as the cool of the massage oil hits Yamamoto’s shoulders and trickles down the curve of his spine. Yamamoto doesn’t  _feel_  stressed; he feels heavy and exhausted and perfectly, absolutely content, but Gokudera’s hands on his skin are to be appreciated at any time, the more so when they are offering the pleasure of a massage along with the sheer delight of being touched. There’s the click of a cap shutting, motion as Gokudera shifts his weight a little farther forward, and then he’s sliding his palms up Yamamoto’s back, the motion made smooth and slick by the addition of the oil. Yamamoto sighs pleasure, shuts his eyes to lose himself to the not-quite-friction, and Gokudera huffs a noise that is probably a laugh over him.

“Told you.” His fingers slide back down, sweep up and out more slowly this time, pressing in to work at knots Yamamoto didn’t realize were there. “For such an easygoing idiot you sure are bad at taking care of yourself.”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums, the sound drawn long and warm as Gokudera braces against his shoulder and brings his weight to bear in a long slide against Yamamoto’s spine. “I just want to be at home sooner.”

“Do you not  _sleep_?” Gokudera demands rhetorically. He shifts his position again, bringing his other hand up to press in at the base of Yamamoto’s neck with the gentle rhythm of pressure that always makes Yamamoto feel like he’s melting. “I’d rather you were gone twice as long if you came back less wound-up.”

“I just--” Yamamoto starts, cuts himself off with a groan as Gokudera pushes the heel of his hand in against his shoulderblade. “ _Oh_ , that feels good.”

“Of course it feels good,” Gokudera growls. “You’re going to get sick if you keep doing this.”

“I just want to come home to you faster,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera lets the pressure go, sweeps his hands back down in a gentle glide all across Yamamoto’s back. “I don’t like being away.”

“I know,” Gokudera says, and his voice is so completely absent of judgment that it makes Yamamoto’s chest go tight in recognition of the closest thing to spoken reciprocation Gokudera ever gives him. “I know you don’t.”

They both go quiet after that. Gokudera seems to have said what he wanted to say, and Yamamoto is content to stay silent as Gokudera’s fingers work all the coherency out of him along with the tension in his back. He feels like he might be drifting into sleep with the pleasure of Gokudera’s hands and the comfort of Gokudera’s presence to lull him there, is teetering right on the edge of unconsciousness when there’s movement over him, Gokudera shifting his weight forward, and then there’s the warm of an exhale at the back of his ear and Yamamoto is taking a breath right back into awareness. Gokudera’s hands are against his back, gone still to steady out the other’s movement, and Yamamoto is just starting to hum in appreciation of Gokudera leaning in against him when there’s damp against his throat, the press of lips to his skin.

There’s a temptation to tip his head down, to twist around and try to catch Gokudera’s mouth with his, but Yamamoto is dazed and sleepy and this feels like it’s still part of the same unusual consideration that resulted in a massage in the first place. So he goes up, instead, angles his head so he can offer his jawline to Gokudera, and he’s rewarded immediately by another kiss, this time followed by the warm wet of the other’s tongue tracing against his skin. The sensation makes him shudder, the reaction unmistakable to Gokudera leaning so close against him, and Gokudera does it again, turns his head so Yamamoto can feel the ends of the other’s hair shift and catch against his oil-slick skin. Even then neither of them speak, even though Yamamoto is completely awake now and starting to go hard against the sheets under him, even though he can hear Gokudera’s breathing coming a little faster with each scattered kiss. It’s not until there’s the scrape of teeth against Yamamoto’s skin that the sensation goes from warmth to heat, that his breathing catches itself into a faint moan at the back of his throat.

“Hayato,” he manages, and then he’s turning back, reaching for the kisses being pressed into his skin. But Gokudera leans back, pulls away like he has the reaction he wanted, and it’s only the continued pressure of his weight over Yamamoto’s hips that keeps the other from sitting up and reaching for what he wants.

“Stay still,” Gokudera says, purring over the words in his throat, and slides back and away. Yamamoto wants to turn around but he wants to obey more, stays where he is even when he feels Gokudera move off the bed entirely. There’s the rustle of fabric, the sound of a drawer opening, and then a touch at the inside of his knee, a gentle push to urge Yamamoto’s legs apart. Yamamoto starts to move immediately, although the action is slow with the weight of exhaustion layered through his body; he’s still shifting his weight when the bed moves again and there’s the push of a bare knee against the inside of his thigh.

“Oh,” he says, faint and muffled by the pillow, lifts his head to look back at Gokudera. He catches a glimpse of pale skin, a bare shoulder and the sharp curve of waist into hip, and then there are fingers skimming up over his thigh and he’s too busy groaning to remember to keep his eyes shut. He drops back to the bed, turns his head down against the sheets so they’ll catch some of the sound at his lips, and Gokudera’s laugh purrs in his eyes as the touch pulls back and there’s the plastic click of a lid coming open.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” A faint, slick noise, the lid shutting again. Yamamoto is too tired to go tense in anticipation but he’s still thrumming with adrenaline, his entire body trembling faintly out of desire for the cool-slick contact of the other’s fingers. Gokudera doesn’t keep him waiting; Yamamoto is just taking a breath when there’s friction against the high inside crease of his thigh, fingertips grazing his skin before Gokudera’s fingers spread wide and bracing and his thumb fits in against Yamamoto’s entrance. He doesn’t push, doesn’t slide inside; it’s just contact, the warmth of his fingers against Yamamoto’s skin and the slick promise of the lube against his hand. “Do you want to get some rest?”

“ _Hayato_ ,” Yamamoto whines, more a plea than a threat, and Gokudera laughs over him, his free hand spreading out over the curve of Yamamoto’s back to hold him still.

“Just checking,” and his thumb is sliding just inside, pulling Yamamoto open as much as thrusting into him. Yamamoto sags against the mattress, what little energy he had left evaporating under the pleasant familiarity of the intrusion, the sense of being laid bare and opened up for Gokudera’s touch. He can hear Gokudera’s sigh of satisfaction, the stretch of the other’s touch drawing warm up under his skin, and then Gokudera draws his thumb back and replaces it with a finger, easing in slow and smooth and deep, until Yamamoto feels pinned between the hand at his back and the touch inside him. It’s a good feeling, like this is where he belongs, spread out over their shared bed with Gokudera leaning in over him with the smile Yamamoto doesn’t have to see to know is curving against the other’s lips. The pleasure runs bone-deep through Yamamoto, brings another whimper of satisfaction to his lips as Gokudera adds a second finger, and his thoughts are going hazy, warm and drifting with exhaustion and contentment and the slow ache of desire collecting low in his stomach.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Gokudera warns, and Yamamoto has to laugh, blinks his eyes open and turns his head so he can glance back. Gokudera’s arm is moving, slow steady strokes that run all the way up to his shoulder, and Yamamoto has a shudder of reaction just seeing the motion to match the drag of friction inside him.

“I’m not asleep,” he says, the words catching as if to prove his point when Gokudera shifts his fingers and presses in against him. Yamamoto’s gaze slides down, catches the sharp edge of Gokudera’s collarbone and down to his waist, stalling out at the untouched flush of Gokudera’s cock. It’s enough to get him to raise his hand, to reach out in unthought plea for direct contact. “I missed you.”

It’s an easy phrase, lacking any inherent sensual weight. But Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter, he groans low at the back of his throat, and when he slides his fingers back and free it’s with the slow care of intention. Yamamoto’s spine glows hot, a tingle of anticipation shivering up to spark out into white pleasure in his blood, and Gokudera’s hand at his back is sliding sideways and off him to brace against the mattress instead. The contact of fingers is replaced with the weight of the other man, the bare warmth of his chest pressing against Yamamoto’s oil-slick skin, and Yamamoto is curling up to meet him, shifting against the bed to press as close as he can get as Gokudera lets his weight down against his spine.

There are lips at his ear again, accidental contact of Gokudera’s mouth against his skin, the sound of breathing loud at Yamamoto’s ear. He can’t see Gokudera’s face anymore, doesn’t really need to; he can hear the other’s reaction instead, the short inhale of anticipation as good as a warning before there’s heat pressing against him. Gokudera moves slow, gentle in the thrust of his hips, but they both tremble as he sinks inside Yamamoto, shuddering in complementary reactions to the sensation. It’s a stretch, drawing Yamamoto’s body tight and right on the verge of aching, Gokudera’s cock pushing him open as inexorably as the movement is gentle. He’s pressed between the bed and Gokudera, he can barely catch his breath for the weight against his back and the heat sliding inside him, and it’s perfect, it’s everything he’s been longing for the last days apart.

“ _Hayato_ ,” he says, and Gokudera’s lips press against his neck in a deliberate kiss, a hand ruffling up into his hair like Gokudera can’t keep his hands to himself. The hand alongside Yamamoto’s hip shifts up, braces Gokudera at a better angle, and he starts to move, slow smooth strokes without pulling away from the contact with Yamamoto’s skin. The oil makes the motion easy, the friction warming instead of pulling, turns all Yamamoto’s body flushed with pleasant heat even though they’re both entirely atop the blankets rather than beneath them.

Yamamoto doesn’t realize he’s rocking against the bed, tipping his hips back to meet Gokudera’s thrusts and grinding his cock in against the sheets as the other draws back, until Gokudera huffs a laugh at his shoulder and fits his hand down between Yamamoto and the blankets. His fingers are slick from the oil and the lube both, and he doesn’t even curl his hand into a grip; he just sets his fingers against the head of Yamamoto’s cock, offering extra friction and smoother strokes at once, and Yamamoto shuts his eyes and gives himself over to thrusting in against Gokudera’s palm. It’s better than the bed, enough that he’s breathing harder nearly as soon as Gokudera touches him, and his awareness of the other’s motions is melting away, any deliberate thought disappearing to the unconscious force of pleasure in his body. It’s all the same thing, the soft of the bed supporting him and the pressure of Gokudera over him, the smooth rhythm of Gokudera fucking into him and the steady friction of the fingers against the slick-swollen head of his own cock. His fingers tighten involuntarily at the sheets, go slack again as anticipation turns into patience for the inevitable, and then he rocks forward and heat uncurls into him, his cock twitching hot and spilling over Gokudera’s fingers as he falls slack and gasping against the sheets. Gokudera groans at his ear, wordless approval wrapped around the shape of Yamamoto’s name, and the hand bracing alongside him tightens at the blankets, steadies them both as Gokudera begins to thrust faster against the trembling aftershocks of Yamamoto’s orgasm. Yamamoto’s still shivering occasionally, helpless to the uncontrolled jolts of pleasure, when Gokudera’s cock goes hotter inside him, the other’s movements go sharp and erratic. Yamamoto can feel the hand under him jerk in the first rush of reaction; then Gokudera is groaning over him as he comes, each shiver paired with another flush of heat. Yamamoto can feel the jolts in Gokudera’s breathing at his shoulder, in the motion of the other’s body over and in him, and he shuts his eyes and lets the satisfaction pull him under.

He’s more than half-asleep when Gokudera recovers enough to rock back on his knees, to ease himself out and slide off the bed. There’s a hand at his back, a lingering touch of fingers before Gokudera retreats to the bathroom to rinse clean. Yamamoto doesn’t move; a shower would be nice, but it can wait until the morning since the bed is making such an excellent bid for him to stay right where he is. He doesn’t entirely succumb to sleep, in spite of the comfort and the warmth permeating every corner of his body; he’s still awake enough when Gokudera comes back in to slide sideways to make room for the other, to fit in under the covers when Gokudera huffs a laugh and pulls them back. Gokudera is far warmer than the blankets when Yamamoto rolls in towards him, Gokudera’s knee fitting easily between Yamamoto’s legs and his shoulder the perfect shape to fit under Yamamoto’s fingers. Gokudera turns his head in to catch Yamamoto’s mouth with his in a kiss as sleepy as it is warm, and Yamamoto nuzzles in against silver hair and falls asleep before Gokudera has even reached to turn out the light.

He always sleeps better when he’s home.


End file.
